Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
CASALTA, 15 MAY 1973 – TWELVE YEARS EARLIER
LUCREZIA
I crossed the gardens, returning from seeing Vanni after school – in secret, of course. I often spent a little time outdoors before coming home anyway, to shake off the school day, so I had a ready-made excuse for being out longer.
It was then that I saw my mum coming out of the house with her bag on her shoulders, on her way to the hills. I ducked and hid, even though I knew she wouldn’t have stopped me from seeing Vanni, as she had nothing against the Orafi. But if I were to be discovered, I didn’t want her to be involved and get into trouble on my behalf.
There was a precedent. Once, Mum exchanged a few words with Signor Orafi in the tailor shop: this came to my father’s ears, and I still remember the shouting that followed.
Mum often wandered in the hills carrying her painting materials with her, an easel under her arm, wearing her wide-brimmed hat, so I thought nothing of it. But just as I was considering whether it was safe to come out of my hiding place and go home, I saw my father go after her. He was taking his time, like he wasn’t in a hurry to reach her. In hindsight, I would say he was stalking her like a hunter with a deer, in the way he walked slowly and silently after her – but at the time, I didn’t think there was anything untoward happening, because Father enjoyed walking around the Casalta estate, too, on the hills and in the vineyards and olive groves. He said he wanted to see in person what everyone was doing.
When they were both out of my sight, I slipped out of my hiding place and made my way to the kitchen, where I knew Matilde would give me milk and a slice of bread and jam, and settled down to do my homework. Bianca was already there, her school materials on the table, carefully arranged the way her things always were.
‘If Father finds out you’re talking to Vanni Orafi he’ll be angry,’ she whispered. Looking back, this had always been her worry: that Father would be angry.
‘Well, he won’t find out!’
Matilde turned to look at us, but she said nothing. Years later, I was to describe her stance towards my father’s authority to my therapist as half feisty, half pragmatic. Feisty, because I could see she loathed him, and she showed her rebellion in half sentences and pursed lips; pragmatic because not only did he pay her wages, but her family was employed by the Falconeri in various ways. Laura, our maid, was her niece; her son, Diego, was one of my father’s men, even if he was young still; an assortment of nephews and cousins worked in our estate.
We resumed our homework. It was a peaceful afternoon. So peaceful, it seemed like nothing could ever disturb the harmony of the five of us together: Bianca and me studying the Roman emperors, Nora and Mia playing in the courtyard under Laura’s watchful eye, the familiar scent of Matilde’s cooking in the air.
And then, suddenly, the sound of Mia’s crying seeped in from the courtyard. Matilde and Bianca rushed to see what was wrong, while I lingered on the doorstep – Mia never cried; she was usually very quiet and not prone to outbursts. The sound of her desperate sobs was so upsetting, so wrong , I almost covered my ears.
Nora was standing there, eyes wide. ‘I don’t know what happened!’ she said over Mia’s sobbing. ‘I didn’t touch her!’
‘Did she fall?’ Matilde asked, inspecting Mia’s knees. Mia wrapped her arms around Matilde’s neck and wouldn’t let go. We were all aghast. This had come out of nowhere. She was crying so hard, she was almost howling.
‘No. We were just playing,’ Nora replied, and her eyes were full of tears too. ‘I haven’t done anything to upset her!’
‘I know, tesoro , don’t worry,’ Matilde said, and Bianca took Nora’s hand.
Matilde felt Mia’s forehead for a temperature, asked her if her tummy was sore, but my sister wouldn’t answer, just cried and cried.
Mia’s despair was contagious, and for a little while all of us sisters were in tears. The peace was broken, and we became tetchy, anxious. It took a long time for Mia to calm, and when she did, she lay listless and pale in Matilde’s arms, sucking her thumb, even if Mum and Matilde were trying to help her grow out of it. Nora was back outside, skipping – she always hated being indoors, confined. We could hear the snap snap snap of the rope as she jumped.
The sun was setting and making the copper pots and pans hanging on the walls shine golden red. ‘You need to get off me, tesoro , it’s dinnertime,’ Matilde said gently; Mia rested her head on Bianca’s lap instead. ‘The Signora should be home any time now; there’s not enough light for painting,’ she said. Mum was never out in the dark.
When the evening shadows began drawing in, Matilde stepped outside, waiting… I put mine and Bianca’s books away in our bags. Nora joined us inside.
No sign of Mum.
And no sign of Father, either.
He was usually strict about his routine and liked his meals at the same time every night, in the dining room, with a tablecloth and the good crockery. Dinners were always a formal affair, even when us girls were little; we were expected to have the table manners of mini adults. Often Father’s friends or associates joined us at the table, and he sat like a king overlooking his kingdom, and held court.
We were so much happier when he was out and we were allowed to eat in the kitchen with Mum, warm, cosy and free to be children; but it hardly ever happened. We needed to be given explicit permission to do that, and now there was no instruction.
Us girls were chomping on breadsticks and Matilde was fretting, going in circles between the courtyard, the inner door and the stove where dinner was spoiling, grumbling under her breath about whether she should go and speak to Father or not.
‘He likes his meals on time,’ Bianca whispered, apprehensive as she always was. She was the one most affected by his moods and his explosions; she couldn’t stand anyone even raising their voice, so Father’s wrath was the equivalent of the end of the world for her sensitive soul.
Matilde threw her hands up in the air. ‘I know . But he doesn’t like me going to his study and disturbing him, either. You know he hates being interrupted when he’s working.’
‘He’s not working. He’s out on the hills with Mum,’ I piped up. ‘Unless he’s back and went straight to the study and we didn’t hear him.’
I remember both Matilde and Bianca stiffening, and Bianca’s aura appearing before my eyes, scarlet with alarm.
‘What are you all babbling about?’
Father’s tall, imposing frame appeared on the kitchen doorstep. We all fell silent, and Mia sat up. He was smiling in a way that disquieted us even more; I remember his expression to this day.
‘Dinner’s ready, Signor Falconeri, the table is set – we were just waiting for the Signora. Would you like it to be served now? I didn’t want to…’
‘Don’t fret. Please feed the girls. I’ll send Diego up to see if Emmeline lost her sense of time while painting, as she often does.’ That wasn’t true. She was always home before dark. ‘I’ll go down to the village to look for her, in case she’s visiting a friend. Is the little one all right?’ he added, seeing Mia’s face, which still bore the signs of her tears. His benevolent expression was confusing. Usually it was reserved for friends and clients and associates, not for us.
Bianca stood in front of Mia at once. ‘She’s fine, Father.’
‘Good, good. Well, buon appetito , girls. Thank you, Matilde.’
Again, in hindsight: he never felt the need to tell us what he’d been doing – Mum never lost her sense of time because she knew the consequences – she would never have gone to see a friend at dinnertime, for that exact reason.
Time stretched; that evening seemed to last days. The house was empty without Mum, and Father had disappeared, too. Matilde said she’d stay over and put us all to bed, but as soon as she’d tucked the little ones in we all piled up in Bianca’s little bed and waited. We were so young, we couldn’t resist sleep: it took us, despite the worry and weirdness of it all.
The next morning, when we were still in Bianca’s bed, half asleep and bundled up like puppies, Matilde ran in, still tying her dressing gown. She was followed by Father, who told us that Diego had found our mother’s broken body, up on the hills.
After the funeral, Father’s friends gathered in the living room to drink and smoke, while us girls were supposed to be in bed. I don’t know why, but I slipped downstairs and stepped into that room full of men, a little girl in a polka dot nightdress, traumatised and in pain.
When they realised I was there, everyone quieted. I also don’t know why I said what I said.
‘You weren’t in your study, working. You went to the hills with Mum. I saw you.’
Mia’s sudden upset came back to me: I was sure, then, that she’d felt the exact time it happened.
‘I’m so sorry, Signor Falconeri!’ Matilde ran in to take me back upstairs, and the little kingdom of men reprised their business.
I still have no idea why I did that, why I dared interrupt a gathering of adults – my father’s friends, in particular – in my nightie, barefoot and half-dazed.
Like a small avenging angel.
It was just for an instant, but my father looked almost afraid.
Everything was coming back to me now, all the memories that I’d struggled to recall even during my therapy sessions in Paris. It made sense. What Bianca had told me made sense.
Father murdered her. I knew he wasn’t home, that afternoon. That was why he sent me away. And yet, why be afraid of what a little bereaved girl would say, when the Falconeri family was so powerful as to have everyone who mattered in their pockets? So much so that nobody challenged my father’s account. My mother died on those hills, and nobody asked any questions.
But he’d been afraid of a little girl. And I found the thought grimly rewarding.
My father had been afraid of me.